Interference
by TrueVulcanRaven
Summary: A fancreated character's misadventures in the Big Easy. It's most unfortunate for the poor fellow that he's a magnet for trouble. The conclusion is now up. Let me know what you think.
1. Instigation

"Interference"

Legal Material: All DarkStalkers references are copyright Capcom, Inc. 1994. All obvious references to his work are copyright Chuck Palahniuk. Leon Reinhardt is copyright the author.

Author's Note: This has ZERO continuity with any of my other DarkStalkers stories.

Suggested Listening: "Passive" by A Perfect Circle

Part I: Instigation

"_Wake up and face me._

_Don't play dead, 'cause maybe_

_Someday I'll walk away and say,_

'_You fuckin' disappoint me;_

_Maybe you're better off this way.'"_

_-Maynard J. Keenan of A Perfect Circle_

**1:34 A.M.**

**1998 A.D.**

**New Orleans, Louisiana**

**U.S.A.**

Calling Bowden's a hole in the wall would have been giving the tavern a little too much credit. Half of the neon light fixtures that adorned the windows were out of order or flickered so much that to stare at them too long would have put anyone at risk for an epileptic seizure. At the entrance the second step from the top was _always _slippery with some substance whose identity was probably better off not being pondered. The severity of the condition of the last stall in the men's room was best left to the imagination, but for those in whom creativity was lacking, the smell alone provided more than enough inspiration. The patrons who frequented the establishment the most, however, didn't care in the least. Bowden's had a large basement and an owner who shared their philosophy: that was all that mattered. This simple arrangement made possible the founding of the New Orleans chapter of Fight Club. Every night after closing time, a decently-sized group of disenchanted middle- and lower-class citizens crept silently through the backyard of the residence behind the bar, jumped the rickety chain link fence that separated the property, and descended single file into the harshly lit cellar. Once inside, the rules were read for anyone who was new, and the night's fights were laid out accordingly. When the dust settled, everyone left strangely satisfied and easily able to handle calmly and rationally any bullshit with which he was confronted during the week, be it at work or at home. Even the guys who would have needed reconstructive surgery to look like they hadn't been hit by a Mack truck on the way to the office came back for more. To be certain, Fight Club wasn't about venting all of one's anger and frustrations through violence—that was just a bonus. The real purpose of it was to assemble those who were fed up with the rat race and wanted to find some sort of enlightenment. Eventually, every single one of them reached the same depressing conclusion regarding their stations in life, and in an even shorter span of time they figured out, more importantly, that this granted them a brand new sense of autonomy. No longer were they bound by society's expectations to pursue the so-called "American Dream." Leave that to the hot shot lawyers in Los Angeles, the Wall Street financial wizards in New York, and all the other deluded fools in between, who if ever got the chance would rather that proletarians like _them_ didn't even exist. But what the upper crust didn't like to think about was the fact that they _needed_ people to take all those "lower" positions. More frightening to them still was the stereotypical uprising scenario that would undoubtedly take place if the working class ever completely united in purpose. So the rich built themselves luxurious mansions in gated communities and generally did their best to isolate themselves from those whom they deemed as inferior in social status, taking comfort in the monumental odds against some sort of revolution on the part of the working man. Little did they know that the mechanisms for such an event were already being assembled right under their supercilious noses.

Leon Reinhardt understood all of this. What troubled him was his inability to pinpoint the real reason why he, as a DarkStalker, had chosen to align himself with this particular institution of thought. Sure, the fights were great for honing the combat skills of his human form. But what was it about Fight Club that attracted him so strongly? He mulled this quandary over in his head for what had to have been the hundredth time as he ran towards his destination. Pulling open the doors to the basement, he was met by a disconcerting silence. _The hell…?_ He called out a greeting. "Hey, guys, sorry I'm late. How's it going, Ray?" He raised his hand to shake with his contemporary, who stood like all the others as though hypnotized by an object far in the distance.

"They can't hear you," a smooth, seductive feminine voice spoke up from the shadows.

Leon spun to face its owner, a cold knot of fear beginning to form in his stomach as his senses verified the presence of another Dark One. _Oh, shit…. Whoever this crazy broad is, she could ruin everything. Stay cool, just stay cool, damn it._ "I'm afraid that this is a private gathering, Miss…"

"Aensland. Morrigan Aensland." She filled in as smoothed back her blue-green hair. "And it would be in your best interest not to take this meeting lightly, Thomas 'Leon' Reinhardt."

"Really?" he replied with a condescending smile, though inwardly his confidence was shaken when he heard her name. He'd only gathered up bits and pieces about this "Lady Morrigan," all of them less than complementary in nature. "And why is that?"

"Because once our business is through, you may or may not be in possession of your life."

"Oooooh, the not-so-thinly veiled death threat." Leon threw his hands up in the air in mock fright. "Like I don't get that or worse once a week…anyway, the name of our little organization is kinda misleading. If you came here expecting _Mortal Kombat_, you're at the wrong pla-."

The DarkStalker was interrupted by the _slish-shunt_ of sharp metal tearing through flesh and then bone. Leon's countenance turned visibly lighter in color as he took in what had happened a split-second before. Lodged in either side of Sully Dugas's skull was what appeared to be a black flexible harpoon. It withdrew behind Aensland's back as quickly as it had struck, and the dead man's body toppled onto the cement floor with a sickening thud. Reinhardt's shock faded almost immediately and was replaced by a burning rage. Sully had a wife and a kid, and they were good people. As if swatting a common fly, she had robbed his family of him forever. Leon's anger personified itself in the form of an unearthly howl as he allowed the Darkness that tainted his body to emerge. He could feel the tissue in his muscles being ripped apart and healing over ten times stronger, while a thick coat of black and platinum fur pushed through his pores, covering him entirely and reducing his shirt to shreds. His usually bitten nails extended to form finely honed claws capable of slicing through nearly anything. At certain points in his body, particularly his face, spine, and legs, the bones either cracked or dissolved and then calcified to shape his lycanthropic form. His eyes, now an eerie crimson, cast a menacing glare of unadulterated hatred at his newfound enemy.

"I think it's safe to say that I have your undivided attention now," Aensland stated with a content smirk. "That being the case, we can begin your lessons for tonight."

"Your arrogance is stifling," Leon growled as he rolled his neck with a gratifying _cr-crack _and pulled the belt off his navy blue cargo pants. After tossing the item aside, he fell back into his ready posture, reverse arm up about neck-height with palm out to deflect high blows and lead arm bent at the elbow, angled to protect his ribs. His legs rested about shoulder-length apart, and he kept his weight on his toes to maximize his reaction time. "Allow me to remedy that unfortunate personality flaw."


	2. Rancor

"Interference"

Legal Material: All DarkStalkers references are copyright Capcom, Inc. 1994. All obvious references to his work are copyright Chuck Palahniuk. Leon Reinhardt is copyright the author.

Author's Note: This has ZERO continuity with ANY of my other DarkStalkers stories. If you need a point of comparison for Leon, think of it this way: If Talbain were Charlie, he would be Guile. Leon's style isn't as refined, and he's not as quick or strong.

Suggested Listening: "Pushit" by Tool

Part II: Rancor

"_Staring down the hole again._

_Hands upon my back again._

_Survival is my only friend._

_Terrified of what may come."_

_-Maynard J. Keenan of Tool_

With a guttural snarl, Leon sprang at his adversary, summoning a green aura that surrounded him entirely. As he closed in on her, he turned and struck with his elbow, reinforcing it with the other hand: a technique he'd adopted and named the Dread Charge. That amused sneer never left her face, and she merely crossed her arms in front of her chest, drawing her wings around her body. In an instant they hardened, shielding her from his attack and leaving his lead limb smarting like the devil. Before he could react, she countered the werewolf by expanding her wings first outward and then away. They connected solidly with his torso, sending him reeling. With surprising speed she bridged the space between them by using her shape-shifting abilities to form a sort of rocket propulsion unit on her back. Her hands shot out and latched onto the fur on his shoulders, and she immediately sent her knee flying towards his face. His head snapped back from the strength of the sudden blow, and she wasted no time in capitalizing on his vulnerability. She crouched, leveled her hand at an angle, and at point blank range fired a charge of energy in the shape of a white bat—the infamous Soul Fist. Its concussive force was so great that it blasted him through the roof of the basement and into the barroom above. When he landed in a disorderly mass of bruises, cuts, and burns on the wood floor, it was then that he realized he was, to put it bluntly, in _very_ deep shit.

_Fuck…gotta lay low, let my healing factor kick in…haven't taken hits like this in ages. _He crawled behind the counter as quickly as he could, helping himself to one of the glass containers of alcohol on a nearby rack. He didn't bother to read the label as he ripped off the cap with one of his claws. Leon chugged the beverage back, but then immediately spat it out in horror. _What the f-? Taaka? Christ, gimme a break. _He searched frantically for something to curb the pain temporarily before the succubus came back to resume her "business." _There we go…the one and only Grey Goose. _He sighed with relief as a comforting warmth washed over him after he had swallowed a few gulps of the vodka. His respite was short-lived, though: he could hear Morrigan's boosters as she rose through the hole that he had indirectly made a few seconds ago. _Hmm…I may have some use for you yet,_ he thought as he reached for the inferior liquor that had marred his taste buds.

"Have a drink on me!" Leon yelled, standing up and hurling the bottle at his enemy.

As he expected, she instinctively discharged a quick Soul Fist at the incoming projectile, shattering the casing and igniting its contents. Morrigan shrieked in shock as the burning liquid drenched her from head to foot. That was just the distraction he needed, and he was determined to make it count. Reinhardt leaped over the counter and sprinted on all fours until he was within striking distance. He then swung upward with both fists together for a hammer swing that lifted the succubus off the ground. Pursuing his advantage, the lycanthrope jumped up and spun so that he was facing away from his opponent, subsequently performing a forward flip with both legs extended. His left heel hit first in her stomach, doubling her over, and his right followed through and slammed into her chin. He rarely used the Dread Ascent on any DarkStalker who could fly, but he guessed correctly that her garments and hair being on fire were enough of a diversion to safely execute the risky but effective technique. On his way down, he watched her sail through the south wall with a thunderous crash, and as he landed heard her permanently end the career of one of the well-worn tables in the pool hall. He swaggered through the entrance to the game room, his left thumb hooked through one of the belt loops on his pants.

"Not so pretentious and poised now, are…_we_?"

As far as he could remember, he'd only knocked back about three shots worth when he had helped himself to Jeb Bowden's merchandise a moment ago…nevertheless, there were somehow two completely unscathed images of Morrigan Aensland hovering before him.

_Some sort of trick…one of 'em is a fake. _He backflipped away as one flew down at him, her feet morphing into a drill as she descended and tearing a hole where he had stood. "Gotcha!" Reinhardt bounded forward to attack, but was thrown off balance by a sharp blow to the back of his head. Before he could recover, the copy in front of him enfolded him in her wings. _Or not. _

"Gotcha," she mimicked him as she began to crush him.

Reinhardt cried out and clenched his teeth as the pressure mounted, cursing himself for his poor judgment. He wasn't sure how long he could last if she punctured a lung. The lycanthrope remembered reading somewhere that even small amount of fluid—such as blood, in his case—was enough to drown a person. Without warning, she flung him across the room, erasing that particular worry from his mind but still managing to put him in a world of hurt.

Leon tried with all his might to will himself to rise. _Get up! Get the fuck u-!_ "Nnnggaaaaaaaaaaah!" One of her spear-like appendages had found its mark near his shoulder, pinning him to the floor.

The succubus knelt down next to him. "Aren't you a little old for make-believe?"

"What…the hell is…_that_ supposed…to mean? Gaaaaaaaaaaaagh!" He screamed as she sent a charge of her Dark Aura through the metal embedded in his chest.

"Let me spell it out for you," she hissed, her face inching closer to his own. "Your days as a human are over. Drinking binges, hallucinogenic drugs, and especially this nonsensical 'Fight Club' are only temporary escapes from your fate and will ultimately prove detrimental."

His gaze never left her as her words sunk in. The bitter truth that he had tried to avoid for years stung him far worse than any physical wound that he had ever received. "Why do you care?"

"Why _don't _you care?"

"It's my life to do with as I please. Now, answer the question."

She sighed. "If you must know, I thought that with the proper motivation, you could abandon this façade that passes for your current reality and embrace what was given to you. A great deal of potential lies within you, potential that once realized could provide me with some real entertainment. A free spirit like me needs a break every now and then from the humdrum activities that are required of the heir to the throne of the Demon Realm."

"Newsflash: I didn't ask for the curse of the Dark. One of your upper-class associates changed me into this…_abomination_ as a safeguard to discourage me from accidentally exposing a method of entering the Demon Realm to the rest of humanity. On top of that he authorized a hefty bounty for my capture, essentially exiling me from the only place where I knew I would be free from persecution," Leon informed her. "Looking back, I wish that I would have been caught traipsing between the Realms by someone a little less creative. Had I known the suffering that awaited me as a Dark One trapped in a world whose inhabitants fear what they cannot understand, I would have welcomed even the most horrendous of deaths." Leon sucked a gulp of air through gritted teeth before continuing. "Pardon my lack of sympathy, 'your majesty,' but I couldn't care less how you spend your leisure time. Just leave me out of it."

"I wonder," Aensland mused as she began to walk towards a set of stairs leading back down to the basement. "Would your answer change if a life other than your own were hanging in the balance?"

A wave of nausea passed through the DarkStalker as he comprehended her proposal. "You can't be serious." The succubus turned but a half-second with an amused look playing on her face, and then continued walking. "Wait, _wait!_ God damn it, sto-! Uuuuuuuuuuuuhhng!" In his panic he had attempted to sit up.

"I knew you'd see things my way."

She made a slight motion with her head, removing the lance from Leon's body and drawing an anguished gasp from him. The lycanthrope struggled to his feet,a maddening sense of overwhelming helplessness and anger coursing through him. He fell back against a wall for support, his mind racing as he labored to sort out all that had happened in the past 15 minutes. _Sensory overload. Meltdown imminent. Five…four…three…two…. _Leon began to chuckle softly to himself.

"What's so funny?"

"What else? Fate's penchant for the ironic, of course! Oh, this is simply too much. The denizens of what some would call 'Hell' are damned not only once by the Light which shuns them, but a second time by the egotistical, manipulative tendencies of a soon-to-be ruler who can't even begin to grasp the inherently self-destructive nature of the Dark!" A manic, roaring laugh took hold of him that faded shortly into a hiccupping guffaw.

"Barabas Kreutz did you a favor placing that price on your head," Morrigan assured. "You wouldn't have lasted long with such an impudent tongue." She turned away, her bat-slaves forming a swirling cloud around her as she dissipated into the shadows. "I'll be monitoring your progress."

Leon bowed his head. _Somehow, someday…I'll make you regret ever seeking me out, Morrigan Aensland._


End file.
